This is a response to Elizabeth's discussion about dead babies. It's my one and only grief poem.
let's do it
grab knife find matches
no moon dog jumping white trunks withered grass
tear off paper grey boxes square labels typed names
sharp blade locked hard prise open
start to cry
plastic bags one each rip hole fingers scrabble
sharp gritty grab handful throw shower sob wail bent double
handful handful
swap sons
sprinkle Christopher scatter Joel
more ash right hand hurl stick for dog with left
weep softly press against cheek scratch face on triangular bone
upend bag final shake drifting motes black space
collect twigs sit cold ground
boxes smoulder smoke curls stars wheel plastic melts
clutch together up the track rustle leaves ringtail stare
wash babies off face
scrub fingernails
cling in bed tears keep dribbling
3 am sleep
